


Five Breaths

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor and Mairon, in fragments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns all but the twisted sickness of my mind.  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Light torture references, mild gore, bad Tolkien-verse language and a gross lack of apology.  
> Summary: Melkor and Mairon, in fragments.

1.  
  
Melkor is the embodiment of a pure unbridled inferno.  
  
The first occasion Mairon lays eyes upon the Vala, he finds himself standing at the rest of a foothill far from Aulë’s forge, his feet crushing thin blades of grass.  
  
There, bathed in a maroon cloak, a cape of black hair fanning down his muscled back, is perched the Mightiest of the Valar – Melkor himself.  Feathers litter around his feet, and Mairon can see the struggling form of a large bird lain upon the ground.  Melkor’s deep brown boot is pressed firmly upon its neck.  
  
For a second Mairon’s breath catches in his throat, and he is frozen in place.  
  
The majestic eagle squawks in anguish and flays wildly against the grass.  He can see its head craning to the side as though the beast is trying to spot a way out.   
  
A light breeze floats upon the hill carrying with it the distant chirps of a song.  Yet here – alone – the eagle writhes in horror, its feathers bathed in the cool blue light of the Two Trees.  Mairon moves not an inch.  
  
The Vala’s cutting blue eyes raise and lock onto his own.  
  
Silent, the pair stare unblinking toward one another across the wide expanse of grass.  The eagle struggles.  Mairon counts three seconds ripen upon the air.  
  
And on the fourth, Melkor slowly presses down the heel of his boot.  Over the sound of the eagle’s desperate shriek breaks a sickening, loud _crack_.   
  
The bird falls silent, and its neck sags motionless into the grass – a mottled crush of green.   
  
The Vala’s eyes continue to bore into his own, and Mairon forces a swallow as his eyelashes flicker under the intensity of the gaze.  And finally with a feeble gasp he jerks backwards, turning, and dashes his way back to Aulë’s forge, his curled blonde hair trailing behind him in a sweep.  
  
His eardrums are thumping – but his breaths are panted and his blood runs hot.   
  


* * *

  
2.  
  
Steadily, he wraps the cloth around his Master’s hands.  The thickness of the weave rubs rough against his fingers, and he presses the material over the blistering splits on Melkor’s skin.  
  
There is a low humming in the air, and Mairon’s hands glow an unearthly white.  
  
“ _Senseless_ ,” Mairon bites. “Greedy, and senseless.”  
  
The smell of ash crawls down his throat. And for a moment, he can still taste the wood of Aulë’s forge.  And Mairon wonders, for but two full beats of his heart – before a warm rich chuckle trembles down his arms.  
  
Melkor’s bottomless black-blue irises stare down at him, pupils wide and glossy. Mairon’s hands stutter on a breath.  
  
The chalking scrape of metal on stone grinds through the chamber as the servants drag a cart down the hallway outside.  They are seated atop Melkor’s bed, and the three Silmarils burn on the furs beside them. The light is goading – a glimmer of white silver crystal-blue – but Mairon cannot rip his eyes from Melkor’s lips.  
  
“Senseless.” He repeats.  
  
Something dark and charred lingers in the air – a burning bubbling heat, like the molten crack of lava rolling down a hill.  It curdles between them and slides up his nose.  The clench of an ache stirs inside his chest.  
  
He watches as the corner of Melkor’s lips curl into a smirk.  
  
And blinking, Mairon ducks his head and resumes his task.  With each wrap of the cloth, his eyes drag across the disappearing crisp of his Master’s skin and the dark mottled blackness of the burns.  Questions dance in his mind, but Mairon knows better than to open his mouth.  
  
“They will fade.” Melkor murmurs.  
  
And Mairon is not so sure.  
  


* * *

  
3.  
  
The wind rushes in a swirl around the tips of his pointed ears.  He is lying upon the uneven stone of a foothill, his head tipped to the side. The blood carves a crimson, sticky track along his neck.  It pools underneath his hair.  
  
Mairon’s eyelids are flickering, and faintly he tries to remember why and where he is. There is a throbbing, explosive shock of pain on the left side of his skull, and the clashing ring of axes pierces the air above him in a crescendo of brassy song.  
  
Minutes pass unawares and then, with a flurrying gust, Mairon feels himself scooped up off the dirt. His right arm swings dangling upon the air.  
  
And as his eyes glaze half-mast, he stares unfocused around him at the smearing of blood and prone bodies of elves that litter the battlefield.   
  
The cold ache of failure spread through his hands.   
  
There is the slurring wail of voices around him, and it licks inside his ears, twisting and garbled. Somewhere in his half-present mind Mairon feels the rich swell of nausea throb through his chest.  
  
But as the world perverts into an engulfing dusk, Mairon fancies he can smell the thick rust of lava running down his throat as the strong arms that carry him tighten around his sides.  
  


* * *

  
4.  
  
The song Melkor sings is cajoling. It ripples along the cold stone of the dungeon walls and sweeps across the floor.  
  
His Master presses the tip of the poker into the Elf’s skin – and a pitching shriek of terror stabs across the air.  
  
White flesh blisters with a sizzle and the scream bends, mingling with the sound of the Vala’s deep and crooning voice.  Flames flicker across the dungeon in a twirl, and Melkor stands firm as the song winds it way through Angband’s yawning halls.   
  
Sauron’s eyes are wide and his breaths are short.  He digs his fingers into the Elf’s neck as it squirms, the music weaving its ways into his ears and trembling inside his bones.   
  
Melkor’s voice grates like dark, blackened ash brushed between fingers and it is smooth as the silk of his hair. Above him he hears the marching of Orcs, their heavy feet crunching in an oblivious, drummed beat of support.  
  
And still, Melkor holds the poker; the bright hot metal pressed hard against the Elf’s inner thigh. Sauron watches the glitter of Melkor’s eyes – and the sudden sear of burning pain scalds at Sauron’s left shoulder, a ghosted memory of honey brown gold and the robes of Aulë’s house bunched down his waist.   
  
He fights the sudden salivating urge to tug the poker from the Vala’s hand, and slide up Melkor’s chest. The gravelling baritone continues, and Sauron tightens his grip on the tremble of the Elf’s shoulder to keep himself upright.  
  
But his eyelids fall heavy. And as Melkor twists the poker and punctures skin, Mairon watches as flecks of bile trickle from the Elf’s parted lips and stick in the red of its hair, caught upon the song.  
  
He breathes in the curdled scent of blood.  
  


* * *

  
5.  
  
His legs are buckled, and he kneels upon the smooth expanse of white marbled floor.   
  
Above him sit thirteen motionless surveyors; their eyes bore in an unblinking gaze of sorrow.  
  
The brightness in the room is blinding, and Mairon feels it burning along the smooth expanses of his skin. He has the sudden desire to gouge out his eyes.  
  
Owlishly, he blinks. The veins branch across the floor, scattering before him.  He can feel the touches of Aulë’s fëa dance across his own – bold and curious and probing – but he does not raise his head.   
  
“So old thou art. But how I remember once the light of thine eyes, before him.”  
  
Manwë’s voice is a cool, melodic gust. Mairon can feel it sweep along his hair, and the clutch of it press against his throat.  Somewhere in the depths of his mind it feels familiar, like the haunt of a breath once sighed long ago and finally come to an end.  
  
He raises his eyes to find a cool, deep swirling blue.  
  
A roosting eagle curves to the Vala’s left.  Between them, a lone feather sways to the floor.  
  
Mairon can hear naught but the faint pump of his heart.  
  
“And a pity Mairon,” Manwë’s mouth tugs downwards at its ends, and in the silver grey of his robe he raises both arms, eyes searching Mairon’s own. “That they lack now such comprehension … of how far thou hast wandered from Eru’s song.”  
  
And Mairon opens his mouth to reply one final time, but on a beat Manwë tilts his palms into the air.  
  
The room around him begins to tremble. A great hush falls upon his audience, as there grows a crackle in the air, a steady throbbing that grows like the thumping bass of a drum.  It swirls around Sauron – around Mairon’s – blonde-red bloodied hair.   
  
And Mairon takes three shallow breaths – then feels his head explode.   
  
It is a furore of swirling air and biting white light, Manwë’s voice bouncing around his head: _A pity. Such a pity._  
  
But Mairon sees the flash of a flame, and hears the crack of a neck, and feels the careening, dark ash honey of a song wash over him like a wave caught upon his hair. And there and then he understands; and he sees the beauty of it.  The utter perfection.  
  
And as his hröa shatters, tearing into burning flakes of gold, swirling higher and higher into the air – in those last, clinging vestiges of his splitting mind, Mairon can taste but the ashy salt of Melkor’s skin.  
  



End file.
